


The Future Raid

by LCWells



Series: Rat Patrol [13]
Category: The Rat Patrol
Genre: Gen, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 06:45:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7966609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LCWells/pseuds/LCWells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At a turning point, the Rat Patrol is asked whether they want to continue to fight or be broken up and retired to train new teams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Future Raid

**Author's Note:**

> (2016: It has been slightly re-written to match other stories in this series now that they are together online.)
> 
> 2001: Original Author’s Note: What do you do with the Rat Patrol after North Africa? If you are a writer, you want to keep them together. This was how I did it after “The Norway Raid” with some research on London during 1942/43. 
> 
> This was first printed in Remote Control Goes to War in 1997 and reprinted in "Hedgerows & Minefields" in 2001.

"Troy!" 

The sound of Jack Moffitt's voice jolted Sergeant Sam Troy, US Army, out of his reverie. He had been musing over the last year, and the changes that it made in his life. In October 1942, he and Hitchcock, on detached duty with the British, ended up as prisoners-of-war but escaped, meeting up with Tully and Moffitt by accident on a raid through Norway, and all escaping to England. Now, Troy leaned against the base of a pillar in front of St. Paul's, and sucked on his cigarette as he watched the people pass him on their way to pubs or parties or their homes if they were still standing. The faces of the Londoners around him showed grim resolution as they hurried by.

The warm orange light of the setting sun reflected off the face of the clock, Big Ben, as hot humidity settled over London in the summer of 1943. The hub of the Allied effort, London was still occasionally under attack from the German Luftwaffe, but after the destruction of the Blitz, the Londoner was rather blasé about the likelihood of being bombed again. 

Troy had been bombed more times than he liked to remember. It was one of the occupational hazards of his life. Well, that was going to end. The Patrol was being broken up, each of the four members cast to the winds. He had gotten his orders just that morning and he was fairly sure the others had theirs waiting for them.

His fellow comrade from the North African days, Sergeant Moffitt, of the Scots Greys, accepted one of the cigarettes Troy held out, and lit it. "So, Troy, where's your brother, David? Weren't you going to meet him this evening."

Troy shrugged. "He's on a mission."

Moffitt looked sympathetic. "A mission? I thought he was off this weekend."

"They cancelled his orders."

"Troy, I'm sorry -- "

"Yeah, I know," Troy interrupted. He hated sympathy. It made him feel uncomfortable. Especially since his younger brother, David, was on a mission right now, and Troy was going to be shipped stateside. "Got any plans for tonight?"

"Actually, I do and they involve us all. We need to round up Tully and Hitchcock," Moffitt remarked. He glanced up and down the street. "Where are they?"

"Probably at the local bar...ah, pub." Troy glanced at Moffitt, noting lines of stress along with excitement. "What's up?"

Moffitt flicked him a glance of inquiry. "Pardon?"

"You've got a problem."

Moffitt grimaced. "Rather."

"What?"

"I'm hoping you can solve it. Let's get the others." They headed towards the pub, side-stepping troops, and ladies of the night who saw two handsome unaccompanied men, and decided they were ripe for plucking. 

Troy wondered if the fact that the women flocked to his American uniform with the understanding that he had plenty of money, and ignored Moffitt, irritated the other man. It didn't seem to let him bother him, and Troy wasn't about to ask, though he had certainly heard enough grousing about it from other British soldiers. Besides Troy had had his run-in with the Piccadilly commando skirt patrol when he first reached London and was used to their wiles. 

 

Reaching the pub, they entered into the dark, smoky room. The brass was polished, and the wood gleamed, but the room was crowded with soldiers with a few locals who sat at the bar or in corners and glowered. A few girls with unconvincingly-streaked blonde hair and heavy make-up, sat with escorts. Their accents were from the docks or the factories. 

They found Tully drinking beer at a table with Hitchcock, who was in an arm-wrestling competition with a burly man with the badge of a tank corps on the sleeve of his shirt. Both men's faces were red. Hitchcock's three empty beer mugs led Troy to surmise the private was probably drunk. 

Troy wished that Mark Hitchcock's parents had taught him to drink before they sent him to that fancy prep school. The private had gotten into numerous battles during basic training and his training courses. Once he was assigned to Troy's patrol, his instincts had been channeled differently, but he still couldn't hold his liquor worth a damn.

The Kentuckian, Tully Pettigrew, had the grace to look slightly abashed when he met Troy's eyes. He had been drinking as well, but it looked like he was on his second mug. Troy didn't worry about him. Tully had probably been baptized in moonshine. "Hey!"

His concentration broken, Hitchcock's arm flopped over in defeat, and the tanker crowed. Hitchcock flushed angrily, but meeting Troy's reproving glare, he said nothing. 

"Pay up!" the tanker ordered, picking up his almost-empty tankard and waving it. Around him, other soldiers murmured agreement, though some eyed Troy and Moffitt with lively interest. The combat metals on their jackets said that they were veterans, and most of the men were newly arrived in England from their pink cheeks and new uniforms.

Hitchcock nodded, his eyes on Troy. "Another round for everyone!"

There was a roar of applause. 

The tanker looked inquisitively at Troy. "You the guy who was in the camp with him?"

"Camp?" Moffitt said crisply, his accent cutting through the bar. "Hitch, Tully, we've got to leave."

"Hey, what's your rush?" the man asked, belching. "Sitta down and have a drink, Sarge! Or don't you Brits drink nothin' but that shandy crap?" He dragged back a chair, and eyed Moffitt with a distinct air of challenge. 

Before Moffitt could answer, and provoke a fight, Troy stepped in between them. He hadn't a clue of why Moffitt was so insistent, but he could see that something important was going on. "Got orders, buddy. Sorry."

Tully swallowed the remainder of his beer, and slammed the mug on the table, drawing the tanker's attention. "Besides, you want us to drink all your beer?"

There was a general hoot of laughter. Moffitt prudently kept his mouth shut and stepped away from the table. The bartender inserted himself between two of the servicemen and put the filled mugs on the table.

Hitchcock paid for the new round, and he and Tully met Moffitt and Troy outside the bar. 

"Looks like I owe you a round," Troy broke the silence. 

"I could've taken him, Sarge," Hitchcock said in disgust. "I nearly had him." 

"Doubt it," Tully cut in on the other side. He lightly punched him in the arm. "You haven't got all your strength back after that camp."

Moffitt glanced around nervously. "Don't talk about that out here, Tully!"

The three Americans stared at him, puzzled. Troy finally asked, "Why?"

"Come with me," Moffitt said shortly and headed down the street. 

They had gone roughly a half-mile, and were away from the other troops before Moffitt slowed down. Around them, only slivers of light where a blackout curtain had been imperfectly drawn illuminated the street. They saw the light of a flashlight ahead of them, sketching out the edges of the sidewalk. The man passed them without a word. 

"Why, Moffitt?" Troy repeated when they were alone. 

"Ex-POWs aren't allowed back in the fighting, Troy. They know too much to be allowed to be captured again," Moffitt explained hurriedly. "We know too much about that route out of Scandinavia. That makes the higher authorities nervous. Do you want to spend the rest of your war teaching recruits back in Alabama, Troy?"

"Sounds great," Tully cracked behind them. "But I've spent enough time down on the farm, Sarge. I want to get back in the fighting!" 

Troy's brow wrinkled. He was sure that wasn't the only reason Moffitt was so tense. He was reminded of when his brother wanted something badly but wouldn't explain, hoping that Troy would pick up on the hints. If Moffitt wanted something, why didn't he ask?

"Jeeze, didn't know that," Hitchcock said sheepishly. He sounded far more sober than he had in the pub. "'Guess I shouldn't have said anything."

"Just don't talk about it," Moffitt ordered crisply. "I'm trying to keep us intact as a unit, and there are few out there who don't approve. This won't make it easier. Right now, we have to get to the rendezvous."

"What rendezvous?" Troy said suspiciously. "Where are we going, Moffitt?"

"Just follow me," Moffitt replied urgently. 

"How?" Hitchcock asked flatly from behind. "I can't see a thing!"

"Yes, the lamps were blown out here during the Blitz," Moffitt agreed. "I'll use the torch a touch."

They followed the flickering sliver of light in silence. Troy could feel the curiosity oozing out of Hitchcock and Tully, but no one spoke up.

They walked past ruined buildings where German bombs had destroyed homes, uprooted gardens and blown the streets into rubble. Empty spots like missing teeth dotted on each block where the wreckage had been carted away for materials to shore up existing houses. Often impromptu gardens grew up among the concrete sprouting clover and ragwort that cast perfume into the smoky air. Swaying curtains of willow leaves floated ghostly in the evening breeze when the light hit them. There was rustling as squirrels, or rats, ran through the dense undergrowth. 

Going around a corner, they found the street lamps lit with the half-moon light that had been recently approved by the city wardens. Strict blackout was no longer an absolute necessity since night raids were irregular. The engines that most Londoners heard were American or British bombers heading for Berlin or occupied Europe. 

Moffitt flicked off the flashlight and stowed it in his pocket. "Up here."

"Here?" Hitchcock said in disbelief.

They climbed the front stairs of the imposing facade of the closed British Museum. In the black shadows under the pillars, Troy ran into one of the huge doors before he realized it was there. Moffitt knocked twice on a small door cut into the main door, and after thirty seconds, it creaked open. 

An elderly gatekeeper let them in, Hitchcock tripping over the raised threshold, then shut the door behind them.

It was as dark as a pit inside the building. The sound of the gatekeeper's footsteps echoed off the walls. 

With a click, Moffitt switched on his torch.

Hitchcock flinched at the sudden brightness. It picked out the marble walls and patterned floor beneath his feet, but shadows still clung to the corners of the room. 

"Where is he, Mr. Banton?" Moffitt demanded from the elderly man.

"This way." He led the way with a speed that belayed his apparent age. 

They followed single file, looking around at the galleries as they passed. The museum had been closed since the beginning of the war, and the greatest national treasures had long been removed to safer places but there were still Greek and Roman statues in niches which loomed unexpectedly into the flickering light.

Finally, Banton led them into a room where a man was waiting in the light of two small floor lanterns. The windows were swathed in black cloth to prevent any light from getting out. He turned at the sound of their footsteps, and thrust some papers into his pocket. 

Moffitt and Tully saluted and stood at attention. Startled, Troy and Hitchcock followed suit though they weren't sure why. The man in the tailored suit was a civilian. 

"At ease," he said after a few seconds, his eyes surveying them keenly. "I'm glad to see you again," he added to Tully, who inclined his head respectfully.

"Yes, sir," Tully replied. 

"I'm sure you want to know what's going on," Williams murmured meeting Troy's eyes.

"Yes, sir," Tully said. "I believe that we have orders to return to the United States in the next few days. Are you going to change that, Mr. Williams?"

Troy's head jerked around in astonishment. That the laconic Tully actually spoke to the stranger, and on familiar terms, was a rude shock to Troy. He remembered Tully telling him a little about his and Moffitt's time in Washington and naming Williams. This was the intelligence man who had been running the operation where an escaping Troy had run into Moffitt.

"As usual you go to the heart of it, Private Pettigrew," Williams replied with a slight edge. "The three of you were are supposed to be transferred back to the United States."

"Because we escaped from Germany, sir?" Troy asked, remembering Moffitt's words. The transfer home was a dead end, and they all knew it. 

"You have already briefed them?" Williams asked Moffitt in a silky tone.

"No one had reminded them that they shouldn't speak of it before they were released from quarantine, sir," Moffitt replied crisply. "I merely told them of it."

"They were supposed to have been reassigned to bases in the United States months ago," William retorted. It was as if Troy and the others had been forgotten and the battle was between Moffitt and the stranger. 

"Yes, sir," Moffitt agreed. "But the feeling of the High Command was that they were more useful here."

Williams snorted. "Nice try, Sergeant Moffitt, but that is fairly weak defense. I know who in the High Command who you've been talking to. He’s works for me, remember?"

"Yes, sir."

Williams looked back at Troy who was watching them both, suspicion plainly written on his face. He met Williams' stare with a matching stare, and after a moment, Williams smiled. "I see your point, Sergeant Moffitt," he said enigmatically. "It would be a shame to break up the team."

"Yes, sir."

"Excuse me, Sir!" Troy asked firmly. "What is going on?"

"Sergeant, you and your men have a choice which is given to very few soldiers in this war, but for your efforts in North Africa and the stunning success of your escape, Command has decided to leave the choice up to each of you." 

Troy glanced at Tully and Hitchcock who had matching bemused expressions. "Sir?" He tried to read Moffitt but the other man wore his most bland expression. 

"You have been ordered back to the United States to train the commando forces that your Army is assembling," Williams said flatly. His gaze flicked to Moffitt whose expression hadn't changed, then back to Troy. "This is a permanent assignment to take place after your leave to visit your families."

"Yes, sir. I got my orders today."

"Or you can volunteer for a new group which is under the joint command of the British and American Intelligence, which will be a hard life indeed, gentlemen. In fact, you will probably have no life of your own. You will have to be available at any moment for operations anywhere we need you. Basically, you will belong to us, and no questions should be asked."

Troy wasn't sure of the last statement. He was pretty sure that if he was sent into a no-win situation, he'd be asking questions despite the order. 

_Did he want to join up with what sounded like a suicidal operation? Did the others It meant a series of impossible missions...which was what the Rat Patrol had specialized in, of course. Was he willing to give up everything again?_

"You give us the orders and we do the mission," Tully mused. 

"You'll probably be acting as backup for someone else, but yes, Private, you will be given free rein as long as you live," Williams said seriously. "The training you will receive will be more specialized than that you have now."

"For the invasion of France?" Troy added, watching Williams closely.

The man didn't react beyond a smile. "I'm sure that will happen, Sergeant, sooner or later. Whether you will be there before or after it, is up to you."

"I know what I want," Hitchcock said flatly. "I don't want to rot away on some base Stateside, or get shipped out to the Pacific with a bunch of guys I don't know."

"Still got a lot of sand," Tully commented.

"It's all of us or nothing," Moffitt said unexpectedly. "Troy?"

Troy stared from face to face. Should he take up the offer and put his life on hold until the end of the war, or just take the other offer? He wasn't sure... yes, he was. The fork in his life that led to a safe dull existence was obliterated by a surge of revulsion. He'd take up the offer and if he died, well, from the stunts he'd pulled, he should've been dead long ago in North Africa. "I'm in for the special, sir."

"Count me as well," Tully said. 

"Me too," Hitchcock said ebulliently. He hiccupped and looked surprised. Everyone ignored it, and the beery smell.

"Moffitt?" asked Troy.

His former comrade smiled wryly. "I'm already there, Troy. I was offered the commandos just after my stay in the hospital. I took it."

"Very well," Williams said briskly. "Your orders will be amended as follows. After your month of leave, you will report to your new base where you will meet up for the special training."

Strangely, Troy didn't question the civilian's authority. There was far more to the man than met the eye. From Moffitt's and Tully's behavior, Williams was the equal or better of most generals. 

"I suggest you enjoy your holiday, gentlemen," he concluded.

"It will be our last?" Tully asked dryly.

Moffitt reprimanded him with a glance. 

"Dismissed, gentlemen," William said flatly. 

Outside, Banton set a good pace through the museum. They reached the main floor faster than they had entered. 

Hitchcock stopped abruptly, and Tully nearly ran him down. 

"What is it?" Moffitt asked turning abruptly. The flashlight in his hand flicked over their faces.

Hitchcock looked up the stairs with a wistful expression. "I visited here when I was six. Saw the armor exhibit. I always thought of King Arthur. I sorta hoped...."

"This isn't the time for sight-seeing!" Moffitt said in exasperation.

"Why not?" Tully retorted. "I used to read about Roland and Charlemagne, and all those other guys. We haven't got anything to do for the rest of the night. I've already done the sights around Piccadilly, and I can wait till I get home to binge. Nothing else much is open around here, Sarge!"

Moffitt looked like he was going to snap at them but he was cut off unexpectedly. 

"I'll take them up, Sergeant," Banton offered. "Some of the armor's still there on the second floor. We didn't move it all."

Moffitt hesitated.

Troy cut in. "Why don't you do that? Come back in ten minutes."

Moffitt gave in gracefully handing Hitchcock the flashlight. "Use it judiciously and watch out for the blackout regulations!"

Hitchcock flashed him a smile. "Right, Sarge." He and Tully followed Banton up the staircase leaving Moffitt and Troy in the velvety darkness. 

After a few seconds, Troy found that he could see vague shapes. The curtains were by no means perfect down here. 

"So, what did you promise to pull this off, Moffitt?" he asked finally. 

"What do you mean?" Moffitt asked slightly defensively.

"That Williams, he was right. We should be all gone now. We aren't. Who's pulling the strings?"

Moffitt sighed. "I simply pointed out to my superiors that breaking up a well-trained team was ridiculous. They agreed after a certain amount of discussion that it would stupid to lose such a stunning example of Anglo-American cooperation, especially since there isn't a lot of it in London at the moment." Both men knew that relations between the Americans and the British were at an all-time low over differences in style. The invasion of France wasn't likely to happen any time soon. 

"Intelligence? The ones that kept hauling you off for missions without giving you proper backup?" Troy asked acidly. "How many times did we save you from their bad planning, Moffitt?"

"More times than I want to think," Moffitt agreed. "Remember, you worked for them at certain times, Troy! I wasn't sure you wanted to sign on again."

"Why did you think that?" Troy said harshly.

"After those months in the care of the Gestapo and the prison camp, I wasn't sure you'd want to have a go. I wasn't going to commit you to anything without your permission," said Moffitt quietly. "I really didn't have a choice in this either."

"They offered you a commission, didn't they?" Troy asked.

The black shape that was Moffitt nodded. "Yes, I had to take it. I'll be a First Lieutenant when we meet again."

"An officer, huh?"

"They'll make you one if you let them," Moffitt said reasonably. 

Troy shook his head. He wondered if Moffitt saw it. "They've tried that before. Didn't take well."

"I remember." They'd talked about this when they first met. 

"Is this a good deal, Moffitt?" Troy asked suddenly. "What about Tully and Hitch? What do they get out of it?"

"We're all in it together," Moffitt replied. "It's probably the best offer they'll get the entire war."

"So, we're together -- "

"Until the war is over. Or our orders are changed."

"Or until we get killed."

Moffitt was silent.

“It’s Alexander, isn’t it?" Troy asked. "The one you’ve been working with to keep us together.” Colonel Peter Alexander had been the British intelligence officer that Troy and the others had brought out of Norway. Troy had never expected to hear or see him again. 

“Yes. Williams is his commander. Enjoy your time at home, Troy. We’ll see each other in a month. I think there’s a mission being assembled.” 

Troy laughed. "Yes, sir! Does this mean we have to salute you now?"

"Only in public, Troy. Only in public."


End file.
